North grunted.
“Much better,” Coombe said. “Welcome home, my lord, though I can’t imagine why you’re here two weeks sooner than we expected you to be here.”
She hadn’t yet arrived in Goonbell and he knew this was where she would come, at the very least to find out how to reach Scrilady Hall. He asked the fishermen, who knew everything about everyone, and the innkeeper, Mrs. Freely, who outdid the fishermen. No Miss Derwent-Jones.
He sighed and remounted Reggie. It took him only thirty minutes to reach Scrilady Hall, just outside of Trevellas, no more than a half mile from the sea.
There were three servants in residence at the seasoned redbrick manor house set amid charmingly wild bougainvillea and roses and jasmine. It was a lovely house and now, he supposed, it belonged to Miss Derwent-Jones, though he wasn’t certain of that.
But it was here she would come, eventually.
He was greeted by Dr. Benjamin Treath, who was showing an unknown gentleman about the house.
“Ah, my boy, do come in. What are you doing here?”
North only nodded, not yet ready to say anything.
“This is Mr. Brogan, a solicitor who is here to make an inventory of everything so that Squire Penrose’s will can be executed.”
“I see,” North said. “When do you expect Miss Derwent-Jones to arrive, Mr. Brogan?”
There was nothing more than a rapid blinking of Mr. Brogan’s large brown eyes to give away his surprise.
He merely fastened his eyes on a point just beyond North’s left shoulder and said, “I hadn’t realized, my lord, that you were so intimate with the family. Indeed, there is Miss Derwent-Jones and there is a Mr. Penrose—obviously on the squire’s side of the family—who is the only other family member standing to inherit. Mr. Bennett Penrose has been here in the area on and off over the past five or so years. Of course I can really say no more about it until I’ve read the will to the two aforementioned individuals.”
“Commendable,” North said. He turned to Dr. Treath. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, but it’s difficult, North, very difficult. Nothing more has come to light since you left for your trip to London. Ah, you weren’t gone for very long.”
“No, not long at all. I assume you wrote to Miss Derwent-Jones, Mr. Brogan?”
Again Mr. Brogan gave no sign of surprise. “Yes, some weeks ago. I don’t know why I haven’t heard from her, but one must suppose that she will arrive shortly. If she doesn’t arrive by the end of the week, I will write again. The post isn’t all that reliable.”
“Yes, you are probably right.”
“You are acquainted with the lady, my lord?”
“Yes,” North said.
“But how? I don’t understand any of this, my lord.”
“It’s a rather involved tale, Mr. Brogan. Why don’t we wait for Miss Derwent-Jones.”
Mrs. Trebaw, the housekeeper, served them tea and cakes in the drawing room. Conversation was pleasant. North took his leave some minutes later, before Dr. Treath or Mr. Brogan could inquire how the devil he had met Miss Derwent-Jones, why he was here, and what the hell he wanted.
It appeared that Miss Derwent-Jones would be greeted by a solicitor and Dr. Treath when she arrived. She didn’t need him there to tell her that some madman had killed her aunt. He tried to believe it, but didn’t really.
But Miss Derwent-Jones didn’t go to Scrilady Hall.
At ten o’clock the following night, Coombe lightly knocked on North’s library door. He cleared his throat as he entered, looked over North’s right shoulder at the shadowed mantel, upon which sat a very old clock made in Hamburg that was just quietly striking the tenth of its strokes.
“Yes, Coombe?”
“My lord, this is difficult and unusual and not at all what we are used to. There’s a Young Lady here to see you. It is dreadfully late, and she looks quite in a state, and I was on the point of telling her to peddle her wares elsewhere when she drew this pistol on me and demanded to see you.”
7
NORTH WAS PAST him in a moment, striding quickly into the long narrow entrance hall. She was standing there by the front door, her head bent, her shoulders slumped, the single valise sitting by her left foot. She was wearing her cloak, dreadfully wrinkled and soiled now, but had pulled the hood back. Her hair was coiled around her head in thick braids, now coming loose, trailing tendrils of lazily curling hair over her shoulders. Hanging limp in her right hand was the infamous pistol.
At that moment, she raised her head. It wasn’t fatigue he saw. It was pain, raw and deep, and fear.
“Miss Derwent-Jones,” he said, striding toward her. “God, I’m sorry, so very sorry.”
She gulped, he saw it, and she gulped again. Then he held out his arms, something entirely unplanned, something that didn’t quite seem as odd as it should have, and she threw herself against him. For several moments, she was rigid, her hands fisted against his chest. The pistol fell from her fingers and skittered over the smooth marble of the entrance hall. Then suddenly, she began to sob, deep rending sobs that shook her entire body. She seemed to collapse against him, all the fight, all the bravado swept away by her grief and her shock.
His arms went around her and he pulled her close, stroking his hands over her hair, trying to soothe her, comfort her, saying nonsense really, rocking her against him.
She raised her head finally, pulling back a bit from him. “You knew,” she said. “You knew and you didn’t say anything to me.”
“No, there was no chance. You left rather hurriedly.”
“She’s dead, Lord Chilton. No, not just dead, somebody killed her. I can’t—”
He lightly touched his fingertip to her lips. “Hush, you’re exhausted. Come into the library and warm yourself. A bit of brandy and some food will help. Come now.”
Coombe said from just behind North, his voice disapproving, as North’s father’s would become just before… No, he wouldn’t think about that now. “I will bring refreshments, my lord, though I doubt Mr. Polgrain has much of anything in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Coombe. Bring what you have. Now, Miss Derwent-Jones, come with me.”
He watched her take off her cloak, fold it ever so slowly and carefully, as if she was trying to get ahold of herself. Then she placed it over the back of a chair. She sighed, but still didn’t look at him. He watched her smooth the folds of the cloak several times without, he suspected, even realizing what she was doing. He watched her walk to the fireplace, place another log on the fire, stir it up a bit, then reach her hands toward the flames. She was utterly silent, utterly still. She didn’t seem at all like the same girl he’d met such a short time before who’d been sitting on Mackie’s lap, all smiles and magic, downing that ale and coughing until her face turned crimson. He quietly closed the library doors to keep in the warmth, then turned, wondering what to say. She’d run away from her guardian to come to her aunt Ellie, only to find tragedy beyond what she could have ever imagined.
He remained silent, just watching her stand there in front of the fireplace, until Coombe brought in a single tray that held an old silver teapot that had more dents in its sides than Major Denny of the Twelfth Lincolnshire Infantry had pox marks dug into his still-handsome face. The cups and saucers were so old and chipped, surely they should have been given to the poor fifty years before. As for the food, there were two slices of bread that surely had a bit of mold around the edges, a cup of clotted Cornish cream that was more yellow than white, and a single scone that looked as if it could be used as a weapon. He looked hard at Coombe, who just shrugged helplessly, not meeting his eyes. North held his tongue. The last thing his guest needed at this moment was to hear him yelling at his butler.
He poured them each a cup of tea, unable to offer her lemon, milk, or sugar, since there wasn’t any on the tray.
“Thank you,” she said, and gratefully sipped the hot tea. She sputtered, coughed, then quickly pressed a napkin to her mouth. �
��Oh dear, I’m sorry, it’s just that the tea, well it’s rather got big fists, and—”
North took a gingerly sip and thought his tongue would fall off. The tea was stronger than a storm wind blowing off the Irish Sea and tasted as brackish as the drinking water on his majesty’s ships. Fists indeed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and took the cup from her. “Just rest here a moment. I’ll fetch something else for you.” He wanted to go to the kitchen, line up every pair of buttocks, and kick them all soundly, but decided he didn’t want to leave her alone, at least not yet. She looked white and lost and battered down. He fetched her a brandy from the sideboard. “Here, this will warm you much better than my cook’s notion of tea.”
She sipped it slowly. She’d obviously learned from Mackie’s ale. He watched color gradually come back into her face. “It’s good. Not quite so serious a kick as Mr. Mackie’s ale, which is a relief. Actually it’s not so serious as that tea either. I’ve never had brandy before.”
“Think of it as medicine,” he said. “Would you care for the scone?”
She eyed the thing on the tray, looked up at him in bewilderment, which made him vow to kick every one of them harder than he’d planned just five minutes before, then slowly shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry, but thank you.”
He stared off toward the fire for a moment, then said, “I wanted to be the one to tell you, but I had no idea when you would arrive or where you would go first. I did ride to Scrilady Hall, but the solicitor was there, a Mr. Brogan, and I don’t think I was all that welcome. I’m sorry about your aunt. I liked Eleanor Penrose very much. She first came here when I was a boy of only ten. She was very popular.”
“Not with everyone, it appears.”
Tears welled up again but he held his place, not moving, saying nothing.
“Mrs. Freely at the inn in Goonbell said you were the one who had found her.”
“Yes. Listen, Miss Derwent-Jones, you’re very tired. It’s too late for you to go to Scrilady Hall. You will remain here tonight and I will escort you there on the morrow.”
To his pleasure, she gave him a crooked smile. “Can one drink brandy for breakfast?”
He smiled, such a strange feeling, really. “The breakfast tea will be wonderful, I promise you. I will have a small cozy chat with Cook about recipes and such.”
“I thought your butler would slam the doors in my face. I’m sorry I threatened him with the pistol but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“He deserved it. He will survive the shock. As to his behavior, all I can say is that there hasn’t been a lady in Mount Hawke in many more years than they’ve been alive. I suppose that he and Cook didn’t quite know what to make of things.”
“Evidently she didn’t want me here either.”
“He, actually. Mr. Polgrain is my cook.”
He saw that she was weaving where she sat, and rose. “Excuse me a moment, Miss Derwent-Jones. I must inform Tregeagle to prepare a bedchamber for you.”
“Does Tregeagle wear skirts?”
“No, it’s Mr. Augustus Tregeagle. As I said, it is a very long time since a female has been here. It’s a house of men only.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It must be very difficult for you.”
“Actually not,” he said shortly, then smiled to soften it, and again, that smile came easily, too easily, and he thought, Well, fancy that, she feels sorry for me because I don’t have females roaming my corridors, females sniffing the air to make certain it’s sweet enough for their tender nostrils, females clucking over sheets with but small rents in them and worrying incessantly over how black the fireplaces are, and here I am smiling at her about it. He wanted to tell her he was grateful that God had spared him that; indeed, it was a fine thing for other men like his friend Marcus Wyndham, but not for him, but he held his peace. He found himself smiling at her again, and here she was very nearly asleep and not even noticing she was the recipient of a rare occurrence, for him at any rate.
He left her there, slumped down in the chair close to the blazing fireplace, to find Tregeagle. He hoped Tregeagle, a man with more waving white hair than a man should have at his age, and a handsome face that many men would kill to have, wouldn’t be too far under the kitchen table from the quantities of Goonbell ale he consumed nightly, that he wouldn’t now know the difference between clean sheets and a chamber pot.
It seemed Tregeagle wasn’t drinking Goonbell ale at all. He was, in fact, in close conversation with Coombe and Polgrain, standing by the wooden counter, watching Polgrain wipe away stray crumbs from an already very clean surface. Tregeagle stood tall and straight and lean as he’d been as a young man. North stood in the doorway watching men who’d known him since he was a boy, since he’d come to live here at the age of five, to be exact, then cleared his throat loudly, hearty curses hovering on his tongue.
“Ah, my lord,” Coombe said, his voice as smarmy as a tinker’s who’d just sold all his hair potions to a bald man. He hurried forward, wiping his hands on Polgrain’s apron as he passed him. “Was everything satisfactory?”
“No, it wasn’t, as all of you well know. However, we will speak of your collective lapse on the morrow. Tregeagle, I need a bedchamber for our guest.”
“But, my lord, there isn’t a bedchamber!”
“Don’t be an ass, Coombe. This house is larger than the village. There are at least two dozen bedchambers, damn your stubborn hide.”
“That is all very well and good, my lord,” Tregeagle said, drawing to his full five foot eleven inches, meant to intimidate, but didn’t, not North in any case, “but Mr. Coombe is right. We have fed the Young Lady. We have given her sufficient succor. But to have her remain here? Unheard of, my lord, not possible. This is a gentleman’s establishment. Our reputation would be—”
“Our reputation? What bloody nonsense is this? No, be quiet and listen to me. She is Mrs. Eleanor Penrose’s niece. She just found out her aunt was murdered.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Coombe, “she didn’t tell me that, just aimed that pistol at me and looked mean. I thought her quite mad, my lord.”
“It is a pity, certainly,” said Tregeagle. “Such news would be enough to lead to female hysteria, which I understand is more prevalent among their sex than even we could guess.”
“Surely she would be happier at Scrilady Hall,” Polgrain said. “There are women who would see to her and comfort her. Also, I hear they have excellent food there.”
“It would have to be better than what you offered her,” North said. “Jesus, Polgrain, I could have thrown that scone at you and killed you dead—it was like a damned stone. Now, enough of this or I’ll begin to believe you’re nothing but a dried-up old trio of misogynists. Never mind, I already believe it, but hear this. Miss Derwent-Jones is very young. If she didn’t know me, she wouldn’t have anyone. She’s exhausted and needs a good night’s sleep. It’s too late to take her to Scrilady Hall. See to it, Tregeagle, and no more muttering behind your damned teeth.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Tregeagle said at his most stately. “I think I will make up the Autumn Chamber.”
“It’s too dark, too chilly,” said North, thankful he knew which bedchamber it was. “She would catch an inflammation of the lung were she to have to sleep in there. It also needs airing.”
The three men looked at each other. Coombe said slowly, “If she became ill, she could be here for a very long time.”
North nodded, saying, “Quite true. If you put her in a poorly aired bedchamber, one that’s damp to boot, she might very well become ill. Very ill. Then she would be here for a very long time, possibly a longer time than Coombe believes.”
“A pertinent observation, my lord,” Coombe said, cleared his throat, and added, “I think the Pink Oval Room would be best. She’s a female, after all, and everyone knows that pink goes well with the peculiar temperament of their sex.”
“That would be appropriate,” said Mr. Tregeagle after some deliberation. “The windo
ws were open all day yesterday since our new maid, Timmy, was cleaning in there—for practice, you understand, my lord—and it wasn’t raining. Yes, that will be fine, Coombe.”
North just shook his head at them. He was grateful actually that they’d welcomed him back, since Mount Hawke had basically been theirs since his father had died. He wondered if they would have kept the doors locked in his face had he been a female. It seemed a distinct possibility, given their behavior toward Miss Derwent-Jones. It was a good thing she was leaving in the morning, otherwise they might poison her.
He nodded, aware that Coombe and Tregeagle were both looking at him, supposedly for his approval, which seemed silly since they obviously did exactly what they liked, but he said, “The Pink Oval Room would be quite nice, or at least it had better be.”
She was sound asleep when he carried her upstairs to the lovely corner room that overlooked an apple orchard, planted more than fifty years before. His mouth watered at the thought of those fat apples, nearly ripe now, so many of them, enough for the villagers throughout the winter. The trees gracefully covered the sloping land that fell away from the castle nearly to the bottom, where the land flattened out and there was a narrow thread of a stream that wound about over three acres of Mount Hawke land.
The room had once belonged to a female, to which female, he had no idea. He didn’t know who had furnished it in the soft pink and cream colors. He supposed that women had lived here at least a few years at a time, since male heirs had continued to be born and inherit Mount Hawke. But he hadn’t lived here with his mother, only his father and his grandfather. Had his mother ever visited Mount Hawke? He shook his head, shoving the brief memory and the elusive pain it brought far back. No, there had been no woman living at Mount Hawke in this century.
The furnishings were frayed, for they were old, but all was clean and polished. Everything smelled like lemon and wax. Although he hated this stone mausoleum, he appreciated the care everyone had taken of it. Timmy, the new maid, had done quite an acceptable job. A household of men wasn’t at all a bad thing, that is, until they were called upon to exhibit good manners to a passing female.
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